


Stolen

by ambpersand



Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Abuse, Dark!Peeta, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Kidnapping, Sexual Content, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:49:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambpersand/pseuds/ambpersand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One afternoon, 12 year old Peeta Mellark vanished, kidnapped on his walk home from school. Six years later, after a house fire claims a suburban home, he's found unconscious, but alive, in the basement. Struggling with severe emotional trauma and being thrust back into the world after being held captive for so long, Peeta doesn't know how to cope. Despite his scars and violent outbursts, he finds comfort in the most unexpected of places- Katniss Everdeen. </p><p>Warning: Dark!Peeta</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> All characters and material affiliated with The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins.

            The overwhelming scent of disinfectant filled my nostrils and lured me towards consciousness, making my stomach roll with nausea.

            Within a split second of being awake, my body was seized with agonizing pain. My limbs felt stiff and sore, like I’d been beaten. I could vaguely feel a warmth on part of my arm and torso, but trying to focus on what it was made my head pound.

            I must have groaned, because someone came rushing to my side. I tried to open my eyes, but it felt like the insides of my eyelids had turned to sandpaper. The bright, white light of the room stung, making my vision blurry.

            _Where am I?_

Whoever had come near me was speaking, but I didn’t recognize the voice.

            “Peeta? Peeta, can you hear me?”

            I squinted, trying to get my vision to sharpen. I gritted my teeth as I tried to lift my hand to my eyes, but something other than the pain and stiff limbs kept my arm tethered to my side.

            The sensation was sharp, like something was stuck on the inner side of my elbow. I reached to take it out, desperate for at least a small amount of relief from the pain, but a hand wrapped around my wrist.

            I froze instantly, waiting for the blow to come.

            “Peeta, can you hear me?” The voice asked again, persistent, “You can’t take that out; it’s your I.V.”

            Slowly, my vision cleared and my eyes adjusted to the light and the room around me. I was lying in a bed, a tall man standing beside it. He looked down, a polite smile on his face.

            “My name is Dr. Brening. How are you feeling?” His voice was even and calm.

            I was in a _hospital?_

            My eyes were wide, terror filling my gut. My fists clutched at the sheets on the bed, and I looked around wildly. My heart was beginning to pound; my breathing coming in short bursts. The fear overrode the pain in my limbs and I flinched away from him as he reached out toward me, hitting my shoulder on the bedrail in the process.

            The contact, even through the thin gown I was wearing, made my shoulder erupt in white, hot pain. I couldn’t help but to yelp, the unexpected sensation taking me by surprise.

            “Peeta, I’m going to need you to calm down. I’m going to give you some more morphine, okay?” He asked, keeping his distance as he rounded the bed. I watched, frozen and clutching my shoulder, as he picked up a syringe and inserted it into the port that led to my I.V.

            “You’re going to go back to sleep now, okay, Peeta? The pain won’t be as bad,” He looked at me like I was a small child, pity filling his eyes.

            I didn’t bother responding, my throat felt too dry and raw to form words anyways.

            As he’d predicted, within moments my eyelids felt heavy and drowsiness settled over my body. I clung to one thought as I drifted into unconsciousness, both fear and curiosity bubbling within me.

            _Why am I still alive?_

* * *

 

 

_36 Hours Earlier_

 

            I lay in my bed, the mattress lumpy and thin, the dirty sheets threadbare and rough against the back of my arms. I’d been laying here for hours, staring at the ceiling as I listened to the noises on the floor above me.

            My body was weak; it had been over two days since I’d been given any food. Usually, I slept, trying to preserve what little energy I had.

            Today, though, sleep escaped me.

            I had been awake to hear footsteps above me, signaling _they_ were awake and getting ready for the day. I heard as they shuffled around the house, noisy as usual. I heard the silence as they left for a few hours, making my room eerily quiet. Then, they came home again, resuming the routine and the noise that I had memorized over the last six years down in the basement.

            Finally, they quieted. It must be nighttime, but I couldn’t be sure. The only light source in the dank, cold basement was a single light bulb in the ceiling. It reflected dimly off the cement walls, bathing everything in a gray light.

            The storm window was sealed off and covered, blocking any light and preventing it from ever being opened again.

            I had no watch, no electronics; just a too-small bed, a cheap wooden desk, and a rickety bookshelf that was half filled with out of date text books. In the corner they had pulled the plumbing through the wall, enough to give me a toilet so they didn’t have to bother with me any more than they wanted to.

            My room was small and hidden behind the rest of the basement, unknown to anyone else who had ever entered the house. I only knew because they’d bragged about it, boasting that even if the police searched, they would never find my 10 foot by 10 foot prison.

            It was all I’d ever had, ever since they brought me here.

            Ever since they threw me in this basement the day they took me.

            But all day, I lay in bed, going through everything they had ever done.

            The burns, the cuts, the beatings. The outbursts of anger that led them down the stairs and to me, where I got the brunt of their emotions.

            The guilt afterwards, giving me extra food and old books to keep myself occupied.

            The pain, the scars, and the isolation.

            I couldn’t take it anymore; it all had to end.

            Immediately, I knew what I needed to do. The fixture on the ceiling was simple; it would be easy enough to rip out if I could reach it.

            Looking around, I tried to figure out what I could use. The desk might work, if I could get it moved to the right spot. I lifted by body from the bed slowly, flinching at the soreness in my joints. I knew I had to go slow, so I didn’t get tired too quickly, and so I didn’t make too much noise.

            Luckily, my bed was to the side and I only needed to move the desk a few feet, towards the center of the room. My emotions were gone; the task felt like the most logical step.

            The feet of the desk scraped against the flooring as I began to push it forward, and I paused. After a tense moment of silence, I realized no one had heard. I resumed, and inch by inch, I pressed my weight against it until it set in the middle of the room, directly under where I needed to be.

            Carefully I lifted myself on top of the wooden surface, hoping it could hold my weight. I tried not to laugh sardonically, since my body had withered down to skin and bones, any muscle mass had long since disappeared with the meager amounts of food I’d been allowed.

            Now it would work in my favor.

            I was tall enough to reach the ceiling and the fixture, but I realized that as soon as I ripped it from its place, I would be plunged into darkness. I moved a ceiling tile out of the way, satisfied when I saw the insulation above it. I pulled some towards me, knowing I wouldn’t be able to see it well enough when the time came.

            Hoping it didn’t make too much noise, I grabbed the edges of the base and pulled sharply, satisfied when it slipped through the cheap PVC tile. It was still connected, and I took a moment to feel around the wires to make sure I knew which ones to hold on to. It was a guess, but it was all I had.

            With every ounce of strength in my body, I yanked down on the fixture. The wiring ripped from the plastic with the force, sparking as it came out. The room fell dark the instant the wires came out, and I froze, not daring to move until my eyes adjusted.

            I began to wobble, losing my balance as my thin socks began to slide against the top of the desk. I had managed to keep ahold of the wires in my left hand, my palm growing sweaty with how tightly I was clenching them. My arms were growing tired quickly, and I needed to hurry.

            Standing on the tips of my toes, I had to reach even farther to grab the wires and direct them towards the insulation I had pulled out, separating them so one was in each hand.

             I tapped the frayed ends of the wires together, flinching at the sparks that erupted each time they touched together. It was enough, after a few times, to catch on the insulation. Although it caught, I continued my actions, causing the insulation to become engulfed in flames within moments.

            Suddenly, I lost my balance, my feet slipping out from beneath me. My arms flailed wildly, desperately trying to catch _anything_ that would break the fall. I fell to the side, my fingers catching the edge of the bookshelf as I began plunging towards the floor.

            Instead of steadying me, my weight was enough to pull the bookshelf forward. My head smacked the floor as my body slammed into it, filling me with a dizzying sensation. I felt myself losing consciousness quickly, and I couldn’t help but hope that my skull was cracked.

            The few books I had were falling all around me, piling up on my legs and arms as the bookshelf followed behind. I could hear it creaking as it fell; everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

            I felt the weight of it on top of my body as it crashed down, but I couldn’t feel any pain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this sneak peak of whats to come :D This is short since it's the prologue, and normal chapters will be longer.
> 
> Things will get darker as time goes on, and many sensitive issues will come up. All will be marked appropriately with trigger warnings.
> 
> Each chapter will switch between Peeta and Katniss' POV, and will be marked as so. 
> 
> If you're interested, find me on tumblr under ambpersand.


	2. Chapter 1: Peeta

I smelled the disinfectant and cleaner before I realized I was waking up. I could hear voices, but everything felt muddled and foggy; like I had been drugged. 

 _Wait,_ I thought, beginning to remember what had happened.  _Hospital, doctors, morphine..._

It took several moments, but I began to find clarity. I almost opened my eyes, but suddenly decided against it, unsure if I wanted anyone to know I was awake. The pain on my shoulder had dulled, probably a side effect of the drugs snaking its way through the IV port in my arm.

I kept still and listened, and the voices floated through the room towards me. 

“Peeta was protected, in part, by the bookshelf that fell on top of him,” it sounded like the doctor, but in the haze of my memory, I couldn’t be sure. “According to the firefighter that found him, the concrete walls prevented the flames from destroying the basement, but he still sustained some burns to his shoulder and torso from the heat.”

“It’s hard to tell what kind of injuries he sustained before the fire, though. Our x-rays found several remodeled fractures that appear to be a few years old,” his voice turned grim, “and the scarring on his body suggests that abuse was involved during his imprisonment.”

“Why?” A different man spoke, the words coming out scratchy and weak. “Why would they do that to him?” 

He sounded vaguely familiar, but the knowledge of who it could be was like something stuck in the back of my mind that I couldn’t reach. 

“We really have no way of knowing,” the doctor, or at least who I  _assumed_  was the doctor, replied, “And we also don’t know how his mental or emotional state will be as he gets back to a normal life.”

“Well, what  _do_ you know?” A woman’s voice came next, snarling the words. I knew that tone; it had haunted me even in that basement, even when I was far away from her.

My mother. 

At the realization, I knew who the second man’s voice belonged to- it was my father. Their conversation triggered a flood of memories, images flashing before my eyes from my life before I was taken.

Being paddled too hard for spilling a can of soda on the carpet, my mother cackling as tears stung my eyes. “ _Ten years old and crying? What a baby you are. Maybe some pain will make you grow up!”_ she had told me.

“ _Evelyn, stop,”_ My father would quietly plead, but he then wait until she was out of the room to console me. 

Finally I opened my eyes, not wanting to relive those moments again. I had done enough of that while I was locked up, alone in that basement. 

They stood by the door, my father looking a decade older than the last time I had seen him. His hair was gray and he was pale, with wrinkles masking his features. He looked old and haggard.

That was not the father I remembered.

Shifting my gaze, I saw my mother.  Disgust curled in my stomach as I saw that she remained unchanged over the last six years. She still looked angry and mean, a permanent scowl placed on her face. The tight bun she wore her hair in was still there, pulling the skin around her eyes taught. Looking at her, you wouldn’t have any idea she had lost a child. 

My father cast a worried glance in my direction, meeting my gaze immediately. Our eyes locked, and I could see the relief fill his features. I kept my face impassive, unable to draw up the same relief at seeing him.

The doctor, searching for a reason to get away from my mother I’m sure, started at the sight of me awake.

“Peeta,” he approached me cautiously. My reaction to him the last time I woke up was still fresh in my mind, but I this time I was aware of my surroundings. “How are you feeling?”

The question was laughable, but I didn’t bother answering. I felt like shit. My throat was raw, a dull pain throbbed throughout most of my body, and I was as hungry as I’d been before waking up here.

It was easier not to answer.

He took my silence as a cue, reaching for the chart at the end of my bed. “Can you tell me how much you remember before waking up here at the hospital, Peeta?”

The fact that he had to say my name every time he spoke to me was grating, like I was a child that needed to be directly addressed in case I was too stupid to realize I was being spoken to.

“Everything,” my tone was cold, but the emptiness I felt wasn’t putting me in an agreeable mood. I would have been luckier to wake up and not remember who I was.

The doctor opened his mouth to speak, but closed it quickly and scribbled something down on the chart instead. When he was finished, he walked to the right side of the bed I was laying in.

“I was just explaining to your parents the extent of your injuries. You’re very lucky, Peeta.”

“I know what my name is. You don’t need to keep repeating it like I’ve got brain damage,” I snapped at him, gritting my teeth. I could feel the annoyance and anger flooding through my limbs like a river, white hot and thick with aggression.

His eyebrows shot up, but he quickly recovered. “Yes, well, I apologize,” he cleared his throat, and I could see the eagerness on his face to get out of the room. “I was just explaining that you were lucky enough to be protected by the concrete walls and the bookcase that fell on top of you during the fire.”

Lucky wasn’t the word I would use, but I stayed silent.

“You did sustain some second and third degree burns to your arm and torso, and a portion of your leg. The fire spread upwards and into the house, but the heat and proximity to the flames are probably what caused your injuries.”

He waited a moment, gauging my reaction, but I didn’t care about what had protected me. “Did they die?”

The doctor couldn’t stop the surprise that flashed across his face; he knew exactly who I was talking about. Still, he answered. “The owners of the house didn’t survive the fire.”

My anger returned, coursing through my body with new vigor. The _owners of the house_? No, they were the monsters that abducted me and kept me locked in a basement for six years. They _didn’t survive the fire?_ No, they were burned alive.

Because of me.

And I didn’t feel bad for it.

Relief placated the anger in me, tempering it down with the small ounce of satisfaction that I had managed to get _something_ right.

“You’ll need to stay here for the next seven to ten days, depending on your recovery time. Your body is malnourished and you’ll need intravenous fluids and antibiotics to fight off any potential infection from the burn sites, as well as medication for the pain. We’ll monitor your progress over the next few days and let you know anything new,” with an uncomfortable smile and a nod, the doctor was rushing out the door.

The room was tense, and I turned my head to face my parents. My mother looked impassive, inspecting the buttons on her shirt. “Well, I’m going to go find something to drink. Maybe this awful place has coffee somewhere,” she brushed off my father’s hand before disappearing through the doorway.

When she was gone, my father walked closer to my bed, placing a hesitant hand on the railing. “I’m so sorry.”

I wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, whether it was the fact that I was taken, or the fact that my mother seemed to care less that I had been found. I shrugged, unsure of what to say.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Food,” I answered, looking away from him.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he turned and walked out of the room, his shoes squeaking softly against the polished floors.

* * *

 

After a few days, one of the nurses came into my room with a determined look. It was Portia, who had been checking on me every morning and night. She had dark skin, like milk chocolate, and pearly white teeth. The stark contrast between the two made her smiles look even brighter, which she often did.

I wish I could say I returned them.

“You’re going for a walk today.”

“I am?” she was one of the few that didn’t shy away from my cold demeanor.

“Yes, you are. It’s time,” she approached the bed and checked the IV in my arm before pulling the stand out from beside my bed. “Your body is filling out now, and you need to exercise some of your muscles,” removing a bundle from underneath her arm, she set it on my lap. “Here’s a robe. I have some slippers for you to use as well. Now let’s go.”

Her tone was brisk, and I knew I couldn’t argue. Besides, it’d be easier to agree so that I could get something in return.

When I lifted my body up to sit, I realized that she was right. I _was_ gaining weight. The bones that used to stick out and protrude at odd angles beneath my skin were slowly beginning to disappear; the skin on my hands and arms was no longer ashen and flaky.

“Porita?” I questioned as I pulled the robe around my shoulders, “Can you get me something to cut my hair?”

She was silent for a moment, mulling over my request. She’d helped me shave my face, the poor excuse for facial hair I had was still enough that it made my chin itch, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a haircut. My blond hair hung to my shoulders, limp and irritating. “I just want to shave it off.”

“I don’t see why not,” She offered me a smile and took my arm, leading me from the room. “I’ll have to do it for you, but we can do that.”

 

True to her word, Portia showed up in my room that night with a pair of scissors and an electric trimmer. After draping a towel across my shoulders, she began. We didn’t speak, and she didn’t bother asking me any questions that she knew I wouldn’t want to answer. The methodical snipping and buzzing as her hands traveled across my scalp was more relaxing than I had expected, and I was fighting off sleep by the time she finished.

“All done,” she spoke softly, noticing my state. When I opened my eyes, she was standing in front of me, a smile playing at her lips and a small mirror in her hand. “Have a look.”

I looked like a skeleton.

My cheeks were still sunken in, my face pale and lacking color. Even with the sleep and regular meals, dark bags hung beneath my eyes like grim shadows. Now, the absence of hair made my skin look even thinner as it stretched across my skull.

I forced a smile. “Thank you.”

So far, she was the only person I knew that I didn’t hate.

* * *

 

Like the doctor predicted, I spent ten days in the hospital.

Each day was the same routine. I would wake up only long enough to eat and let the nurses redress my burns before collapsing back into bed. The doctor checked on me regularly, always finding me when my mother wasn’t around, to update my progress and see how I was feeling. The conversations were always quick and one sided, where I would nod or shake my head in response to his questions, and he would leave as quickly as he came.

My burns healed slowly, and they weaned me off the pain medication. The injuries began to fade, but the scars were still as prominent as ever.

My body gained more weight, and the walks I took around the hospital with Portia grew easier and easier.

Still, despite my “progress,” I couldn’t rid myself the anger and hatred that constantly bubbled within me at all times. It was ever-present, staining me with aggression and hostility that begged to be released.

During my discharge, the doctor cast a pointed look to my father. “Although he seems to be functioning normally, I’m strongly suggesting that Peeta seek some form of counseling for the trauma he’s experienced.”

I wanted to laugh and roll my eyes, but I gritted my teeth, clenching my fists by my sides instead. I focused instead on the shiny linoleum floor, my warped reflection staring back at me until we were ready to go.

My mother had been absent the entire time I was in the hospital, always leaving my father to deliver her poorly disguised excuses. I didn’t care, really, I was happier that I didn’t have to see her.

It was probably safer that way.

I followed my father to the car, noticing it wasn’t the same as I had remembered. He used to drive a silver sedan that ways always kept pristine and shiny. This car was red and dirty, the dust from the roads covering it in a thin film of grime. I didn’t say anything about it, choosing instead to climb into the passenger seat with my mouth kept firmly shut. He didn’t bother trying to make conversation since most of his previous attempts had been met with silence.

It was a quick drive from the hospital, one that was spent with my eyes trained on the tops of the shoes I was wearing. My father had brought me a pile of new clothes before my discharge, still folded in the bag from the store. They were all loose on my lanky frame, but when he saw me he’d muttered something about “filling them out soon enough” before patting me awkwardly on the back.

I didn’t care about the clothes or the shoes, but I didn’t want to look out the windows as the town went rushing by. I didn’t want to see how things had changed, or what I had missed while I was locked up in isolation.

It was just another reminder.

The colors blurred by, obscured through the window as my father sped down the streets towards what he called “home.” It wasn’t until we pulled to a stop and he put the car in park that I bothered to look up.

It wasn’t the same house.

“You moved?”

My father cleared his throat, fiddling nervously with the seatbelt. “We spent a lot of time searching for you after you went missing. We had to downsize.”

By time, he meant money. I wasn’t that stupid, but I didn’t say anything. It was better anyways; the last thing I wanted was to have to walk back into the room I spent my childhood in, when I thought that things couldn’t get worse than the beatings from my mother.

I nodded, unbuckling myself and climbing out of the car. Leading the way, my father unlocked the front door and held it open. As I walked in, he spoke. “Your brothers will be home tonight to see you.”

I paused.

I knew it was logical, my father had said on the day that I woke up in the hospital that they were off at college and couldn’t make it. Still, since their initial mention, I hadn’t spared them any thought.

I waited, waiting for the guilt to wash over me, but it never came.

“Okay,” I nodded, wondering if I should appear excited. He accepted my response before walking forward.

“I’ll show you to your room.”

 

The walls were bare, and the furniture was plain. A bed, a desk, and a dresser filled the space. A small TV sat on top of the dresser, the reflective surface of the screen distorting the room back onto itself. The closet door was pulled open, filled with only a few items of clothing.

“We bought you a couple more things. When you’re feeling up to it, I’ll take you out to get some more,” he noticed where I was looking, and I nodded again.

“Thanks,” I responded, assuming that’s what he was looking for.

“The bathroom is just across the hall, and the other room up here is the office. Your mother and I have the bedroom downstairs, but I can show you that later. Are you tired?” he asked, hovering near the door.

I shrugged. I was always tired.

“Well, get some rest and I can come wake you when dinner is ready. Make yourself at home,” he offered a sad smile before turning and leaving down the short hall. I could hear him treading down the stairs, his shoes muffled by the carpet.

I considered laying down, but felt restless in the room now that I was alone. I took a few moments to look closer at the furniture, seeing that it was sturdier than the things I’d been given in my basement room. A blank notebook sat on top of the desk, but the drawers were empty. No pens, no pencils. Nothing.

I moved back to the bed, sitting on it gingerly. The comforter was soft and worn, a deep shade of dark blue that had faded and dulled with repeated washings. I didn’t feel right sitting down, so I stood again and moved across the room.

The closet was small, but that didn’t really matter since I didn’t have anything to fill it with. A few shirts hung from hangers, the tags still dangling from the collars. A pair of pants and a pair of shorts were folded neatly on the shelf, but the space was otherwise empty.

“What, not good enough for you? Feel the need to inspect everything?” a snide voice filled the space. I froze in place, my body growing cold at the sound of her voice.

I turned to face my mother, not surprised to see the sneer marring her features. I didn’t bother with an answer, because nothing I said would matter to her.

“You’re lucky to even be here, you know,” she stepped closer to me, but I didn’t move. “We spent so much time looking for you; your father and your brothers exhausted everything we had to try and find you.”

I clenched my teeth, willing my breathing to stay normal. I could feel the anger, always bubbling and boiling, trying to escape. She didn’t wait for a response before continuing.

“We moved on. You weren’t supposed to come back.”

My jaw dropped, an involuntary reflex to the shock of her words. I knew she didn’t want me; I had come to terms with it in my forced isolation. It wasn’t the shock of pain, but from her audacity. At once, I finally gave in to my anger. She deserved it nothing less.

Her face, which had been twisted into a satisfied smile at my shock, turned to surprise as I snatched her wrist between my fingers. I squeezed tightly, willing her to feel some form of the pain I knew so well, and savored the look of discomfort that flashed across her features. I yanked her closer, lowering my voice and narrowing my eyes.

“I burned that house down for a reason,” her eyes grew wide, but I continued, spitting the words at her. “Don’t forget that.”

I released her wrist from my hand, smirking as she rubbed the red mark that I had left behind.

Without a word she turned and left the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologize profusely for the long wait- I've been fighting an extremely stubborn case of sinusitis for the last 5 months or so, and have had some pretty rough days lately. I'm still in the process of trying to get over it (multiple bouts of antibiotics, a head CT and blood testing for allergies has yet to give me any definitive answers) but I've finally found some extra time to get back to writing in between my class schedule, work, and sleeping. 
> 
> The next chapter will be up much, much sooner than it took to get this one out. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and as always, you can find me on tumblr under ambpersand :) (at ambpersand.tumblr.com)


	3. Katniss

_“Did you hear they found Peeta?”_

_“The news said the house burned down because of some faulty wiring. I can’t believe they kept him locked up for so long.”_

_“How did he even survive that?”_

_“What do you think happened to him? Oh god, I bet it was awful.”_

I clenched my jaw tight, grinding my teeth together until I could feel the ache of pain building from the pressure. Everyone was gossiping about the boy that they had long since assumed was dead, but had now been found- miraculously alive- in the basement of a ramshackle house on the outskirts of town. He’d been through a trauma, but all anyone cared about was knowing what had happened behind the closed doors of his captor’s home. _These people have zero respect._

The gossip around town was bad, but the whispers in the halls between classes at school were even worse. Worse because they remembered him, remembered his laugh and the way his blue eyes would light up during their weekly art class. They remembered how he would share his lunch with his friends when they had none, and how he would pick the wildflowers in the schoolyard during recess and give them to the girls on their birthday.

I remembered the day he went missing; the sheer panic that had erupted all over town in an attempt to find the blond headed boy, and the late night searches through empty streets and dark woods. But there hadn’t been any trace of him after getting off the bus that day. It was only three blocks from the bus stop to his house, but that’s all it took for Peeta Mellark to disappear.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the thoughts of Peeta and focus on the history lecture. I rubbed my fingers across the groves on the surface of my desk, carved in by other students over the years. _Two weeks, that’s all. You can do it, Katniss._

I had to motivate myself somehow. _Just one more week until finals._ One more monotonous week of test prep and lesson reviews, then final exams and graduation.

The loud chime of the final bell cut through the teacher’s lecture, and cool relief flooded through my body.

“Don’t forget to read chapters 17-20 before Wednesday! Your review packets for next week include information through the end of your textbook,” the teacher shouted over the noise of students as we all began grabbing our bags and books to get out of the classroom. His words registered in my mind, and I held back a groan. The homework was piling up.

Pushing through the throngs of students in the overcrowded hallway, ignoring the people I bumped into, I made my way to the back parking lot. I always felt like I was about to suffocate in these halls, surrounded by overstuffed book bags and the smell of too much perfume and body spray. The clamor echoed off the walls, amplifying until I couldn’t think straight. Shoving the heavy door open and stepping out on to the hot concrete of the parking lot, I inhaled as deeply as possible. It wasn’t much, but it calmed my frazzled nerves.

My white Jeep was easy enough to spot. Towering over the other sleek, newer cars in the lot, it was at least 20 years old with splotches of rust marring the paint. The seats were faded and worn, the upholstery threadbare after so many years of use. Mystery stains were like shadows in the fabric, but the rest of the interior was clean. I tossed my bag into the backseat before sticking my key into the ignition, satisfied when the engine roared to life; I was thankful today was not one of the many days that the engine sputtered and went silent instead of starting.

Pulling out of the lot and into traffic, I turned down the volume dial on my radio. Soon enough, after I picked Prim up from the middle school, she would find the pop station and turn it back up.

I had to enjoy every ounce of silence I could afford.

 

After getting Prim picked up from the middle school and listening to her chatter on for 15 minutes about how excited she was to _officially_ be a “high schooler” after next week, we pulled into the driveway of our house.

“It doesn’t change that much, you know,” I told her with a slight smile.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes it will, trust me.”

I laughed to myself as we got out of the car, more amused at her attitude than I was annoyed. She was growing up faster than I realized. In four years, she’d be the one going to prom and prepping for graduation. Her tone was aghast as she’d told me several weeks ago, _“I can’t believe you’re missing your senior prom, Katniss! That’s practically a crime! Just wait, when I go to prom, you’ll be sad you missed out on getting to dress up.”_

I doubted her words, as jeans and a t-shirt were my limit for girlish style, but she didn’t quite understand. It’s easier for her, considering she has the same fair complexion, golden hair, and blue eyes as our mother, she was even developing curves- even though she’s only 14. I, on the other hand, have a body that’s thin and muscular, lacking curves all over. With my dark hair, grey eyes, and olive skin, I look adopted in comparison. Even when I was younger and our mother used to try and brush the tangles out of my hair before bed, she’d look at me in the mirror with a sad smile and say, _“All I can see in you is your father.”_

When we got inside, Prim tossed her book bag on the floor and ran up the stairs, “I’ll do my homework after dinner!” she shouted back at me. I didn’t bother responding, as she was probably already in her room, powering up the old laptop we shared.

I used it for homework and papers, she used it to chat with her friends.

I made my way into the kitchen, pausing at the refrigerator to sort through its contents. It was getting uncomfortably empty, signaling that I would need to go grocery shopping soon. After I pulled a package of chicken from the freezer, I checked the old porcelain cookie jar next to the fridge where we kept any spare cash.

Empty.

I grabbed the notepad we kept on the counter next to the jar, and began scribbling a note.

 

_Mom,_

_We need money for groceries._

_I’ll go shopping tomorrow after school._

_-K_

 

I left the note in the middle of the counter, where it would easily be seen. As usual, I knew she was working a late shift at the hospital, and wouldn’t get home until sometime after midnight. Her hours were long and arduous, but they paid our bills.

Sometimes barely, though.

Usually when I left her a note, she would find some cash or leave a blank check in the cookie jar, so I could get whatever we needed. If the jar was still empty in the morning when Prim and I would head off to school, I knew I had enough money in my bank account from my meager part time job that would buy us enough groceries to get us by for a few days.

Working at Sae’s Café, a greasy diner down on Hob Street, had its perks. The job sucked, since I mostly spent my time washing dishes or running the cash register, but it meant I got to take home the leftovers from each of my shifts, meaning free dinner for both Prim and I.

Sae’s was a hole in the wall place, with only one cook- Sae, who was missing a tooth or two, but she was a surrogate mom to any of her employees who needed it. She even taught me to cook, which meant that Prim and I could stop living off mac n’ cheese and boxed dinners. Which came in handy, right about now.

I always thought about Sae when I cooked. As I shuffled around the kitchen, beginning to prepare dinner, I would remember her words as she barked out orders at me, forcing me to keep up with her fast pace.

_“You can always add more salt, but you can’t take some out!”_

_“Sour cream. That’s the key to the richest mashed potatoes.”_

_“Meat is easier to slice when it’s still partially frozen, you know.”_

I began to let my thoughts wander as I finished prepping the chicken and potatoes. Instinctively, they wandered to Peeta. Outside the window above the sink, I could just see over the tall fence at the back of our yard. Past that fence was the Mellark house, sitting as quiet as it had been the day they moved in.

_I wonder when he’s coming home._

* * *

 

It had been just over ten days since they had found Peeta, and other than the same news clips they had been playing over and over, there had been no sight of him.

Not that I was counting.

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, studying the bumps and ridges in the texture. Exams were over, today was senior skip day, and tonight meant graduation. The black polyester gown was hanging from my closet door, ready and waiting to be put on, but every time I looked at it I felt anxious.

I forced myself to sit up, tossing my heavy braid over my shoulder. I needed to find something to keep me occupied.

_I could go to the diner. On my day off? Nevermind._

_Maybe I should go clean up the fire pit, so we could have a bonfire tonight…_

I stood up and walked towards the window, looking down into our backyard. My room was on the second floor, right next to Prim’s, but gave me a view into our yard and the one that jutted up against it- the Mellark’s. From my vantage point I could see the majority of their lawn, no longer hidden by the privacy fence they had put up. Their house was also two stories tall, with windows in the back that closely mirrored ours. A sliding glass door on the first floor led to a cement patio, completely bare except for a dead plant and two faded lawn chairs.

I stopped scanning when I noticed movement. My eyes trailed back to the window on the left side of the house, directly opposite of mine, where someone had walked by. It looked like they were wandering in the room, passing back and forth in front of the window slowly. Except for holidays, I hadn’t seen anyone in that room since the two oldest Mellark boys went off to college across the state. Luckily, the sun was in a position that allowed light into the room, giving me a better view of who it could possibly be.

Before I could figure out whether or not Rye had come home from University for the summer, or if it was just Mr. Mellark vacuuming, the figure stopped in front of the window, looking out across their yard. I squinted my eyes in an attempt to focus, and when I did, I gasped.

He was thin and frail, even I could see that from my window. His hair was shaved down to his scalp and it wasn’t hard to make out the dark circles under his eyes and the shadows on his face, making him look gaunt and skeletal. In a flash of panic, I ducked out of the way before he could notice me standing there, scrutinizing him.

My heart thudded in my chest, loud and pounding against my ribcage. My hands began to shake, feeling clammy and cold as I clutched them against my mouth and slid down the wall to the floor beside my window.

It was Peeta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should apologize for not updating in over a year; I'm seriously terrible. 
> 
> This isn't the greatest chapter, but I hope it can make up for a bit of the wait. Find me on tumblr under ambpersand and say hello!


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